


The End of Ordinary

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Angst, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Train stations are composed entirely of beginnings – of stories that wind away until all of their promises have dwindled in the distance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> Have some crappy angst to distract you from my continued failure to answer all of the lovely comments that have been stacking up for several months! I don't deserve you wonderful people. ;____;
> 
> For the record, this is, rather predictably, [Tumblr's fault](http://tierfal.tumblr.com/post/50311117128/fmamultishipping-hagaren-roy-x-ed-by).

The three of them stand still as people stream past, dragging luggage, talking loudly, pointing and shuffling and hurrying along the tangent trajectories of their independent lives. Train stations always make Roy feel wistful, somehow.

Armor plates scrape softly at the precise volume that makes the hairs at the back of Roy’s neck prickle as Alphonse turns the helmet to look at his brother and then at his brother’s C.O.  As the silent soulfire eyes settle on him, Roy does not waver, and he does not challenge: he looks back levelly.  He knows that Al knows; and he knows that if Al disapproved, there would never have been anything to disapprove of in the first place.  If Alphonse had given Ed the slightest sign of disfavor, Ed would never have wound up tangled in Roy’s sheets with his hair spilling over his bare shoulders and his spine arching and his head thrown back and his hips jerking hard—which means that Alphonse is neutral on the matter at worst, which means that Roy is in no danger.  Al’s increasingly frequent, entirely incomprehensible looks are most likely meant as a warning— _treat him well; you must know he’s more fragile than he’ll ever admit_ —but they’re not a threat.  If Al wanted Roy out of Ed’s personal life, Roy would be gone already, and probably castrated for good measure.

Anyone who does not believe that opposites attract—or at least that they complement flawlessly—need only meet the Elric brothers to be convinced otherwise.  Roy will concede that the boys’ stubbornness and intellect are identical, which provide them with a solid foundation of common ground, but the briefest introduction to them would demonstrate the polar distinction of their personalities when it comes to such traits as _tact_. For instance:

“I’m going to go find us some seats,” Alphonse says, tactfully.

“I’m going to go take a piss,” Ed says, from a parallel universe in which decorum was never even invented.

“Your eloquence astounds,” Roy says.  “Shall I wait for you here?”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Ed says. Without further ado, he taps the knuckles of his right hand on the side of Al’s chestplate, passes the suitcase into a waiting gauntlet, and saunters off in the direction of the lavatory.

Al pauses—is it strange that Roy is beginning to be able to interpret the steely silences?—and then inclines his head.  “It’s nice of you to take the time out of your day to see us off, Colonel.”

Roy swallows _My pleasure_ just in time.  “Certainly.”

There’s another fragment of a pause, and then Alphonse turns and walks off, clanking softly, towards the row of platforms wreathed in steam.

Perhaps the looks aren’t a warning after all.  Perhaps they’re a question.  Perhaps they’re a contemplative _Why?_

Not a _Why does my brother find you roguishly attractive and maddeningly intriguing?_ , because Roy, of course, has that effect on a lot of people; and not a _Why does my brother tempt you so profoundly that you’ve crossed every moral boundary you ever laid down?_ , because anyone who’s seen Ed’s silken hair swinging against his jawline can hazard the answer to that.  It’s a _Why did you come to the train station to bid farewell to your secret lover on his way to a task that you yourself assigned?_

And, ordinarily, of course, Roy wouldn’t have.  Ordinarily, Roy would have stayed behind his desk, steepled his fingers, gritted his teeth, and prayed.  He would have scoured the newspapers, cast out all his nets, made the after-hours phone calls, tossed and turned his way through the sleepless nights plagued by _what-if_ s batting their wings against his ear—but he would have been able to breathe freely without seeing Ed for the maximum number of individual seconds that he could justify.

Today is not ordinary.  Today Roy has to clench his hands behind his back to stop them reaching out for Ed’s arms, his shoulders, his hair.  Today Roy’s desperate to hold him, dying to touch him, _needing_ to confirm that he’s _real_ —

Today is not ordinary, because today marks eleven days since Ed dropped off of Roy’s radar near the border of Aerugo; eight since his voice stuttered down the phone line so hoarsely that Roy barely recognized the sound; and five since he limped back into Central Command, duly delivered an extremely abridged report, staggered back out of the office, and was rediscovered several hours later collapsed on Roy’s bed and drooling on the clean sheets.

Today is not ordinary, because last night, as Roy was uncovering Ed one article of clothing at a time, the bruises and the welts were only just beginning to fade, and there was nothing in Roy’s power to do but to press his mouth down over them one by one.  Roy sent him to that.  The intervening details are irrelevant; it was Roy’s _fault_.  He’s both terrified and feverishly eager to ask for details; the truth might well destroy him, but he wants to know whose throats to _cut_ —

He doesn’t imagine Ed would tell him even if he asked.  Ed seems to know him too well for that.  They both have a strain of it in them—of reckless, thoughtless, heedless righteousness.  Roy would tear himself to pieces to make this right.

Last night, as Ed slept—snoring softly into Roy’s collarbone, with his metal toes twitching intermittently—Roy did little more than stroke his hair back over the pillowcase and _savor_ him. There is something powerful and deeply affecting about lying close to another human being—hearing their heartbeat, feeling their breath, sliding your fingertips over every dip and plane of a wholly foreign form. Roy has found that, in the proximity of Edward Elric, the ordinary wonder at this phenomenon becomes unrivaled awe. Ed is so brazen that the sun dims behind him; to see him still, sedate, and quiet, settled so _peacefully_ when fierceness is his forte…

To see the scabbing lacerations on his left shoulder and to know that Roy himself might as well have _put_ them there—

To watch his body operating all the gentle patterns of unconscious restoration, and to consider the concrete possibility that he could _die_ , and all of this would _stop_ —

Ed chooses that moment to return from the lavatory, and as he spots Roy, he flashes the grin—the grin that strikes like a knife blade, like a sunbeam, like a revelation. “Did Al excuse himself so that we could say goodbye?”

“I believe that was the intention,” Roy says.

“Figures,” Ed says. “He’s a romantic.”

In Roy’s peripheral vision, shadows move past them on all sides, but Ed is the only person in the world who is bright and genuine and _real_. There seems to be no reason to look at anybody else.

Ed notices that Roy’s gaze has fixated on him, swallows, twists his left hand into the fabric of his coat, and licks his lips. “Well, um—I’ll—see you soon.”

Roy manages to look away then—long enough to spot a niche between the wall of the waiting room and that of the station house; long enough to map out a route through the milling crowd towards the space; long enough to catch Ed’s arm and tow him gently to it. Habit still sings louder than his heartbeat, and he scans the unfamiliar faces of the passersby, but no one’s paying them the slightest bit of heed. Essentially they’ve disappeared.

So it’s all right, isn’t it? It’s safe to fist both hands in the front of Ed’s blood-red coat and drag him in and wrap both arms around him like it’ll keep him safe forever.

For a long moment, they both just breathe.

Ed shifts, lifts his hands and then drops them, and maneuvers to press in just a little closer. His voice—when some thousand too-short moments pass, and he breaks the silence—is muffled against Roy’s shoulder:

“I’m gonna miss my train.”

“No, you’re not,” Roy says into the curve of his neck, into the warmth and the scent and the wonder of his skin.

“Am so,” Ed says, but he hasn’t pulled away. “And then you’re gonna have to buy me a new fucking ticket for the next train, and Al’ll have to wait at the next station all alone. Just—gimme five days. Not even a whole week, and I’ll be back. But first you gotta let go, so I don’t miss the damn _train_.”

“You won’t,” Roy says, lips moving against the soft silk of Ed’s hair. This is heaven, and it’s wretched, and all the parts of him are at war. “The attendants know to look for you, and the train won’t leave until they’re sure that you’re on it.”

He waits, in the silence. He waits as Ed’s left fist clenches in the front of his uniform and then releases. He waits to be berated, to be shouted down, to be lambasted as a liar and a manipulator and a coddler and a coward and a cheat.

But Ed draws back, warm hand spread on Roy’s chest, and sighs.

“Look,” Ed says, “what happened in Aerugo wasn’t your fault. There was a lead, and we went for it. I still would’ve gone for it if I’d known what was gonna happen. I know you try to—I dunno, protect us, shield us from the worst stuff, but… it’s out there. We’re out there. You’re so clairvoyant it’s creepy sometimes, but even you’re not always gonna be able to see it coming, and I…” He smiles thinly. “Well, shit happens to me. That’s just my life. It’s who I am; it’s the hand I got dealt. I’m making my peace with it one day at a time, y’know? Don’t worry about me. You’re too busy to waste time worrying about anybody else’s crap.”

“Your crap is quite extraordinary,” Roy says. “I frequently find myself preoccupied.”

Ed wrinkles his nose as if it will hide the beginnings of a grin. “Yeah, well—knock it off.”

Roy knows what this is. Roy knows that the tug in his chest is undeniable; that the compass-needle inside of him is pointing him home. Roy knows why the echoes of Ed’s voice curl inside his ribcage when he is alone, and that the low hum that resonates outward from the deepest reaches of his shrouded heart is no coincidence. Roy knows what this means.

But he can’t say anything—not yet, not _now_ , perhaps not ever. Not until Ed’s older; not until Ed’s safe. Not until Ed’s wise and jaded enough to turn and walk away from the words if he has to.

“I’m going to miss you,” Roy says softly. “Rather terribly, I think.”

Ed stares up at him. Roy raises a hand for one last graze of a thumb across his cheek, one last cradling of his jaw, one last twist of fingers into the thick hair at the base of the trademark braid.

“You really think we’re gonna make it?” Ed asks. “You and me?”

“I would at least like the opportunity to find out,” Roy says. He leans down, closes his eyes, kisses Ed’s forehead, tries to learn the taste. “Come back to me.”

“That an order, Colonel?” Ed mumbles, left hand shy where it settles over Roy’s.

“Yes,” Roy says—despite the obvious fact that it’s not an order; it’s a _plea_.

Ed squeezes his hand, and then Ed is the one with the strength to pull away. He smiles, and his eyes flick up and down and up again to linger on Roy’s face, and then he turns and merges with the crush of bodies moving by. Roy tracks him for a moment before the bustling station swallows up the slash of red and gold.

And so the truest test begins.


End file.
